


The Gardener's Son

by andquitefrankly



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Epistolary, M/M, Sabrina AU, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Thorin is a workaholic, bilbo is sabrina, bilbo is too hot hot damn, bungo is not emotionally prepared for this drama, for like a chapter not the entire thing, frerin is a playboy, i need to stop watching movies, the durins are the larabees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6591448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andquitefrankly/pseuds/andquitefrankly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins has been in love with Frerin Durin for as long as he could remember. And for as long as he could remember, Frerin has never so much as looked at him as anything other than the gardener's son. When Bilbo returns from Paris, he's suddenly caught Frerin's eye. Only Durins and the help don't fall in love, and it's Thorin's responsibility to make sure their romance doesn't bloom. </p><p>Sabrina AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Durin Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newlife_oldsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newlife_oldsoul/gifts).



> AUGH!! WHAT AM I DOING I HAVE SO MANY WIPS RIGHT NOW.  
> This is a bday present for Jen, who is amazing and beautiful and who I came to with this au and we went on and on and then died b/c Sabrina is a fantastic movie and everyone should see it and i needed to bagginshield it. so yes, happy birthday chica!  
> it's not going to be a long fic. i already have everything planned out!! So i'm hoping it'll be 5 chapters tops.  
> Enjoy!  
> (mini note: in the beg, bilbo is around 19/20/21. Thorin is about ten years older than him, frerin eight, and dis five.)

Nestled within the mountains, not too far town but not so close either, just outside of Dale, was Erebor.

A sprawling estate that stretched for acres. There were stables and stable hands; a forge, kept in care by a blacksmith, a gym with a personal trainer, a tennis court and a basketball court; there were indoor swimming pools and outdoor swimming pools; there was a conservatory for the arts and a conservatory for the plants.

And a gardener, by name of Baggins.

Bungo Baggins was an upright, proper sort of gardener, his braces always fastened, his hat carefully perched upon his head, and the slight whiff of topsoil about his person. The acres upon acres of land was under his care.

He lived in a small cottage, along with the other small cottages, where the rest of the servants of lived, though his was a little closer to the main house. He lived there with a son, Bilbo Baggins, a bright eyed young man with an ever wistful sigh.

It is this son, whom our story concerns.

* * *

The garden twinkled under the night sky, soft lights swinging on string hanging between trees and trellises. A small orchestra played sweet music, a soundtrack to the clinking of glasses and the laughter being bitten off by the wind.

From his perch, it was difficult to see past swirling taffeta and puffs of chiffon, as they waltzed under the lights. Just a little bit higher, and he’d have the perfect view.

He had never grown very tall, nor very wide, and he was quite lucky that his hands were steady. Just one more branch, and the view would be perfect.

From there he could see… everything.

The ladies with their painted faces, their jewels glimmering, their dresses in an assortment of colors; the men in their black tuxedos, handsome and charming. They were like images from his storybooks, surreal in their decadence but as rich as a good fudge.

Familiar.

And there among them was Frerin Durin.

It must be known, that there were three Durin children. The eldest, a Thorin Durin, a serious sort of man who never smiled and had the elegant grace of king overseeing his kingdom. Frerin Durin was the second son, and never was there a more handsome, charming, and ridiculous man who had ever lived. He had never held a job, and he spent most of his days being photographed. The youngest was a girl, Dis Lombard nee Durin. She was equal parts cold and warm, a perfect mix of her brother’s temperaments. She had two sons, and could be found scolding either them, or her brothers.

They were all there, but Bilbo had only eyes for Frerin. He had only _ever_ had eyes for Frerin.

His golden hair, his bright, wide smile, his lovely blue eyes; everything about him was perfect and Bilbo was in love.

It was a love that had concerned Bungo Baggins for quite some time. Puppy love, can be understood, it can be outgrown. But as Bilbo grew older, the infatuation grew, and it had come to the point that Bungo felt it was in his best interest to separate the boy from the problem.

This would be his last night in Erebor for quite some time, and Bilbo just wanted that one perfect memory of a Durin party and Frerin, dressed like a prince.

He could see from this perch much better.

There he was, dancing with a red haired vixen, her head thrown back in laughter, the sound reaching Bilbo’s ears. Such a horrible, screeching sound, yet Frerin seemed taken, as he usually was.

There were so many of them, and Bilbo remembered them all. Men and women, who had danced in Frerin’s arms, who were led towards the conservatory as the orchestra played _Besame Mucho_.

This particular oak tree in which Bilbo rested, had ample view of the conservatory, the plants his father so carefully tended to did not obscure the view of a lover’s embrace. He always told himself, that this time, he wouldn’t look.

But Bilbo always looked.

If only it were him in those arms. If only, if only.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing up there?” Bungo crowed at the foot of the tree, Bilbo gasping in surprise, his foot sliding.

Bungo practically jumped up the tree to catch him, but Bilbo held on tight, finding his footing as he climbed down, reassuring his father that yes, he was alright, stop worrying.

“I told you to stop climbing trees,” Bungo lectured as he reached solid ground. “You’re much too old for such nonsense.”

“He took her to the conservatory,” Bilbo said, gazing wistfully over his shoulder. By now they were certainly becoming better acquainted.

Bungo shook his head and put his hand on his son’s shoulder, leading him back to their cottage. “This isn’t healthy, you know,” he said. “There is more in this life than Mr. Frerin.”

“Yes, father,” Bilbo acquiesced.

“Tomorrow you’ll be far away, far from him,” Bungo continued. “It isn’t healthy for a boy your age.”

“Yes, father,” Bilbo repeated.

Bungo sighed, stepping into their cottage, the sitting room in disarray. It was hard enough to see his only son leave for Paris. His wife had left this life too soon, and raising a son alone was a heavy burden. Not that Bungo regretted one moment of his life. Bilbo was his greatest treasure.

He just had to remind himself that it was for Bilbo’s own good. He’d never bloom here, no matter how much Bungo tilled the soil and offered water and sun. Sometimes the neighboring garden was better.

“You’ve packed all your clothes?” Bungo asked, hands fitfully pulling at his braces. “Your books and your toothbrush?”

Bilbo nodded with yawn, arms stretching over his head. “Yes, yes, and yes,” he responded.

“You ought to sleep,” Bungo said. “It’s an early flight tomorrow.”

“Goodnight father,” Bilbo mumbled, pressing a soft kiss to his father’s cheek, feet trailing towards his bedroom.

Yes, for his own good, Bungo repeated to himself. As much as he may loathe the idea, Paris would be good for him. No Durins to distract him.

* * *

The music wafted over the hills and through his bedroom window, open just a crack to let in the cool, late summer air.

He couldn’t sleep like this.

Out there was Frerin Durin, making love to a beautiful woman, and here he was, ready to depart forever. He could attempt to speak with him one last time, before he was nothing more than a fond memory, a childhood friend.

Or.

Or Bilbo could leave right now. Perhaps he could go to London, and begin an exciting life as a wanderer. He could write poems and drink wine and flirt with any person who gave him the eye, until he was caught by a rich widow and lived the rest of his life as a kept man.

He threw off his bed covers and slipped on a change of clothes, quietly opening his bedroom door to peak out his head. He could hear his father snoring from one room over.

Bilbo silently closed his door and crept to his window, sliding it opening, pausing only a moment as it let out a small shriek. He turned his head, praying that his father continued sleeping.

The house was dead silent for what seemed like years before his father let out a loud snore. Bilbo thanked whatever gods existed and tossed his suitcase out the window, following quickly behind it.

He dusted off his trousers and dragged the luggage behind him, the party’s music covering his noise.

It was barely midnight and the party would continue on for hours yet. No one would expect him to be missing, and by morning they’d all be too late. Bilbo paused a moment as he reached the work shed, looking over his shoulder towards his home. Perhaps he should have left a note, so as not to worry his father.

Bilbo shook his head. Now was not the time to become emotional. He was so very near his escape.

He quietly slid open a door, just wide enough to slip through. He blinked, adjusting to the darkness. The bicycles were kept in the far corner, and what was one bike amongst a dozen. He’d send it back. Or perhaps once he was wealthy he’d send back fifty bicycles.

There was the faint sound of crunching gravel nearing the shed and Bilbo froze, bike unchained and the pedals stuck in the spokes of another bike. No! He had to get free! It was his only chance.

Bilbo pulled and shook his bike, shushing the bicycles as if it were their fault his escape was very much slipping out of his grasp.

“I don’t care how much it costs, Balin.”

Thorin.

It had to be Thorin. Bilbo cursed his luck as he set the bike down, his thumping heart as loud as a drum and his harsh breathing untamed by a hand over the mouth. Go away, go away, go away, Bilbo repeated like a mantra in his head. Please.

Step, crunch. Step, crunch.

“We need that mine, and if - All right, you see what I’m dealing with here,” Thorin continued, pacing back and forth just outside the shed. “Those miners still itching to strike? Yeah, yeah, tell the leader we’ll negotiate. Ha! I’m not so uncouth. Let me know how – ”

Bilbo’s breath hitched as Thorin stopped talking, his pacing coming to an abrupt halt. Leave, Bilbo wanted to yell.

“What? Sorry, Balin, I’ll call you back,” Thorin said, his mobile beeping as he ended the call.

His suitcase! He had left it right at the door, thinking it easier to grab once he’d had the bike. Foiled by his own foolishness.

The doors slid wide open, the lights flickered on, and caught within the row of bicycles was Bilbo, eyes wide and hands clenched onto the handle bars of a yellow bike.

Thorin held his luggage in one hand as if it were nothing more than a light bag. Bilbo couldn’t even carry it properly without muscles straining.

“Going for a ride?” Thorin asked, a small smirk hidden beneath his beard. He looked down at the luggage and back up at Bilbo. “Doesn’t your flight leave in the morning? Seems a bit inadvisable.”

“I’d like my suitcase back, thank you very much,” Bilbo sniffed, hand held out expectantly. In for a penny, in for a pound, his father had always said. There didn’t seem much way of getting out of trouble, but damn it all if Bilbo wasn’t going to try.

Thorin stepped closer, his once perfectly shined shoes covered in a light dust. Bilbo had always been scared of the eldest Durin. He was harsh and sharp, unlike his younger siblings. His youth was spent cowering behind trees and servants whenever Thorin rushed past. It seemed strange to think that he was even a blip on his radar.

“By all means,” Thorin said, placing the luggage by Bilbo’s front wheel. “Though I don’t know how you planned on riding while carrying that. Perhaps a rope to drag it along? Maybe ride with it on your lap.”

“You’re laughing at me,” Bilbo grumbled, once again attempting to shake loose his bike.

A large hand fell atop his and Bilbo froze, staring at the appendage in shock. He was easily moved, and before Bilbo was completely aware, he was being led back to his house, a warm hand on his back, his suitcase in Thorin’s capable hands.

“I never took you for such childish fancy,” Thorin commented. “Running away on a bike, when you could easily run away in fashion tomorrow morning.”

“It’s already morning,” Bilbo stated. “And perhaps I’d like to run away on my own terms.”

“Do your terms include food and money and a place to live?” Thorin asked. Bilbo stayed quiet and a rumble akin to a laugh could be heard from behind him. “You are the most extraordinary young man I’ve ever had the pleasure to know, Bilbo Baggins.”

They stopped just a few yards from the cottage, Bilbo shuffling out of Thorin’s grasp. “I can make it from here,” Bilbo declared, making a grab for his suitcase.

Thorin didn’t seem inclined to agree, but relented, handing over the luggage. “You’ll like Paris,” was Thorin’s parting words as he left, no doubt to continue his interrupted phone call, work his only mistress.

Bilbo snorted. He had heard it from everyone since his father made the announcement. Paris is beautiful, Paris is fun, Paris is so grand you’ll never want to leave. All Bilbo wanted was to stay at Erebor, and watch the parties from his tree, dream of the day that he’d be invited and dance in Frerin’s arms.

* * *

“You’ve got everything?” Bungo asked as Bilbo stood in line at airport security. “Your passport and your ticket?”

“Dad, yes,” Bilbo said, hiding behind his hands. He was certain everyone in line was staring at them. He loved his father, but they’d been through this a thousand times, in the car, on the train. Yes, he had all of his socks and his toothbrush, and of course he’d write, he brought his fancy stationery. “I’m going to be alright.”

Bungo sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his eyes. “You’ll have the time of your life, I’m sure of it,” Bungo said. “Don’t forget your old man.”

“I would never,” Bilbo replied, wrapping his father in a warm hug. “I’ll be back home before you know it.”


	2. From Paris, With Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters sent to Bungo from Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the letter writing part!! All of the letters, bar the last one, take place w/in a span of about a year. The last letter is written about 3/4/5 years later, so there's this huge time jump. I didn't date the letters, b/c I feel like they can really be placed at any time. i hope that makes sense.  
> Bilbo mentions ENSBA which is the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts. I looked up the application process and they didn't really ask for letters of rec, but I wanted to include it because of reasons.  
> I'm not French, I barely speak French, I've never been to France, I am simply a tiny mex/am girl who is trying her damn hardest. so if anyone is like "that makes no sense, no french person - we don't say things like that - you clearly don't know what that school is like" i am sorry. and feel free to let me know what i did wrong and how to fix it.

 

Dear Father,

I have arrived safely, of which you are aware, as I had called you upon arrival. I was picked up by Monsieur Pages in a sleek, black car. His wife, Madame Pages, who insists I call her Sophie, says that my French is not so atrocious for an Englishman.

She has also determined that I am far too thin, and has made it her duty to plumpen me up. Every time I see her, she offers me a new food and will not leave until I have licked the bowl clean.

It is very strange to have others wait on you. I told Madame Sophie that I was not so wealthy as the Durins, that in fact, I am the gardener's son. Her eyes lit up so, and she pulled me to the garden to show off. She has the most delectable tomatoes.

I know that you are gnashing your teeth together, but I will learn her secrets and report back ASAP. I will not allow my father’s tomatoes to be sub par.

I would like you to extend my gratitude towards Mrs. Durin for allowing me use of her townhome. I will admit I was quite wary of disturbing the Pages’, but they are really very welcoming. Madame Sophie has three boys, all grown. They never visit her, she told me, as she dabbed at her eyes. Monsieur Pages rolled his eyes and confided in me that they visit plenty, and if he saw them as often as his wife wanted, they would simply move back in.

I hope you are well and do not miss me too much. Just enough.

~~How is Frerin? Does he miss me? I miss him terribly.~~

With Love,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Dear Father,

Madame Sophie asked me what I was doing alone in Paris. I told her that I had begun my days as an adventurer. She did not believe me.

She says I should go to the university, play music, write a book, fall in love. You do not think someone told her about Frerin, do you?

I saw him in a magazine today. I passed it on a newsstand as I carried a bag full of produce for Sophie. He was so very handsome. Who was the man he was with? Surely Aunt Chica has heard all the gossip. You must inform me. The Pages’ do not have a computer, and so I receive all news from the newspaper.

Monsieur Pages is showing me how to drive a car. He says it is very important for a young man. Especially for when I find someone I want to neck in the backseat. To first get them in the back you must get them in the front. He told me not to tell Sophie.

They are very nice, and I like them very much. Perhaps I will write a book. At least it will give me something to do.

Love,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Father,

I tried writing a chapter of my esteemed novel and instead of miraculous prose, all I was able to write was a very boring sentence. I think perhaps I am not so cut out for this book business.

Sophie has begun teaching me how to cook authentic French food. She says she studied at one of the most elite cooking schools in all of Paris, and she will show me what she knows. Monsieur Pages says that the only school she went to was at her mother’s knee.

She does not find my cooking skills lacking and says if I wish it, I can join the school not far from the house. She has it from Mrs. Durin herself that money is not an issue.

It makes me wonder what I have done to deserve such generosity. Or is it simply their way of paying me off. “Go, go to Paris. Get far away from my boy.” I half wish to decline, but I had never truly dreamed of furthering my education. You spoke of me going to uni, but I saw it more as an impossible hope.

If I do not want to become a renowned chef, there are other schools nearby. I had asked her if she was simply trying to get me out of her hair. She laughed and laughed. “Young people are so flightful,” she said. “Cannot stay in one place long, cannot make up their minds, cannot make up their hearts. You must live now, before you are too old, before you regret. The world is before you, now you must walk out the door!”

I think Sophie was a philosopher in a past life.

Always,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Father,

I am now attending a small cooking school some few blocks from the house. There are perhaps ten students and our teacher, Chef Petit, is anything but. He is a large man with an impressive scowl. I think he would even give Thorin a run for his money.

He does not like me very much. He says my French is horrible and I crack an egg like a drunk parrot. I do not think parrots, drunk or otherwise, would be in the habit of cracking eggs, but he clearly did not agree with me.

Sophie said that she would march right up to the school and give Petit a piece of her mind. I do not doubt that she would. She is a formidable opponent.

I do not think I enjoy cooking all that much. Not to say that I will quit. It is nice learning new recipes and when I come home I will make you the most exquisite meal you have ever tasted.

Is it true Frerin will be visiting Paris? I caught just a glimpse in a magazine. You must tell me whether it’s true or not.

Your son,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Dear Father,

A very peculiar man has joined my class. They say that he is a duke or a count or something, but I don’t know how true it is. He’s also an Englishman, and he wears the most pristine suits, along with a cane. I’m sure the cane is simply an accessory, for though his hair and beard are white, he is very able bodied.

His name is Gandalf Grey, and I’m sure he is nearly a thousand years old. He calls me, “my boy”, and invites me out to luncheons with his friends.

He makes a superb soufflé. He promises to teach me his secret, but all he insists on doing is drinking wine and saying cryptically uplifting things. It is very confusing.

He introduced me to an Elrond Peredhil, who actually _is_ some sort of nobility. He lives in a large flat with his three children and he teaches art at ENSBA. The two enjoy telling stories of their younger days, as Gandalf pounds his cane against the floor and says, “Bilbo, my boy, I hope you’re paying attention. Adventures must be grasped.”

Arwen, Elrond’s daughter, does ballet, and she invited me to one of her performances. I have never seen a ballet before, and I have invited Sophie and Alain (that is to say, Monsieur Pages; he insists that if Sophie is Sophie, then he is Alain).

With Love,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Father,

Sophie adored the ballet, _Giselle_. She said that she had wanted to become a ballerina herself when she was a girl. Alain wiped an imaginary tear from his eye as he said, “Darling, if you were a ballerina, I would have asked you to marry me three years sooner.”

Arwen is a beautiful performer and I think she should pursue the art. She merely laughed at me when I said so, and then told me a great secret. I shall not tell you for I promised not to tell a breathing soul. But I can say that she is in love with Elrond’s ward, Aragorn. He is to finish university in a few months’ time, and when he does… well, that I cannot say.

Sophie and Alain have invited me to stay with them for Christmas. They are determined to keep me here, and while I do miss you and everyone else terribly, I am most eager to spend the holiday with them. Their sons will come visit and I have yet to meet them.

Alain warned me not to fall in love with them.

As if anyone could possibly replace Frerin in my heart. I thought I had seen him get into a taxi the other day. I chased after the cab on my scooter (did I tell you, Alain declared that I am a hopeless driver, but my scootering skills are impeccable), and peered inside when it stopped at a light. It was not him.

I was only mildly disappointed.

I had asked Sophie if she had ever met the Durins, and said that she had only met Thrain Durin once, when Mrs. Durin was still a young woman. He had seemed a bit coarse and she had told her that if they married, she could not guarantee Mrs. Durin’s happiness.

Of course they did get married and Mrs. Durin sends her letters and visits as often as possible and she is very, very happy. The children, however, had never visited.

Sophie asked which one I was in love with. She is very smart; I think we ought to ask her to move to Erebor. I do not know what I would do without her.

As always,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Buongiorno!

My cooking classes have ended, thank the gods!

Gandalf invited me to tour Europe. “When I was your age,” he began, putting a firm hand on my shoulder, “I gathered all my things in a small bag and volleyed forth towards the continent. I even ended up in jail, twice.”

He promises that we shall steer clear of any and all jails.

I hope you like the postcard. The Ponte Vecchi is absolutely beautiful, as is the rest of Florence. As is all of Italy. Our next stop is Switzerland, and then Austria, and Slovenia and Croatia and onward and onward until I’m sure Gandalf runs out of money. We have been taking the train, and I never realized how exciting it was to see the world travel past your window.

He is saving the rest of France for last. If I allowed it, I’m sure he would take me all over the world.

I think he must be lonely. He has no wife (or husband) and no relatives to speak of. It is a boon that he is so very friendly and well mannered.

We will finish touring by the end of the summer, he has told me. I do not know if I will survive until then.

Grasping Adventure,

Bilbo

* * *

 

Father!

I got accepted into ENSBA! I half believe it myself.

Elrond insisted that I was very talented and that he would be pleased to have me as a student. If I failed, well then, back to the kitchen with me.  

I thought for certain I had failed the interview; I had been so nervous and began rambling about… now I can’t actually remember, but it might have been about your tomatoes.

I’ve always enjoyed painting, as you know, but I did not think! Not in a hundred thousand years. Sophie had called me with the good news as we are currently working our way through Greece. She seemed almost more excited than me, she was near sobbing over the line.

I told Gandalf and he just smiled, a suspicious twinkle in his eye. “You sent in an excellent portfolio,” he said. “And wrote an excellent essay, as well has handing in some remarkable letters of recommendation.” Now I am afraid that I did not get in on my own merit. Gandalf wrote one, of course, as did Mrs. Durin (thank her for me, won’t you) and even Elrond, though that one felt a bit like cheating.

Sophie wrote one herself and demanded I include it. “I know nothing about art,” she said, “But I am an expert of character, and you, mon canard, have character leaking out of your ears.”

Thank you once again for mailing me my sketch books and paintings. I will discuss it further with Gandalf, and perhaps give Elrond a ring as well. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet, father, surely you must understand that.

As it stands, we are cutting our Continental tour short. I will be home for a few weeks. Perhaps you can persuade me to my decision. And if I decide to go, I will not do you the dishonor of not allowing you to see me off.

Are the Durins at Erebor for the summer?

See you soon,

Bilbo

* * *

**A few years later**

Father,

I am packing my bags and I find that I have more things than I know what to do with. Sophie is in tears as she folds my socks into my trunk. Alain is just as fitful, scowling and quietly cursing at inanimate objects.

I love them dearly, and will miss them. It is so strange to be so torn apart as I am.

Erebor is home. It’s always been home. It’s where you are, where I grew up, it’s what I have always known. Now, leaving Paris is almost like leaving a part of myself.

I promised to write Sophie and Alain as often as possible, and I will visit them at least once a year. Of course, I must also visit Gandalf, and Elrond, and Arwen (she and Aragorn eloped last year and he’s been following her on tour), and all my other friends.

Graduation is in a few hours and I must get this letter sent, but I must say, I am glad I stayed here, Father. I’m glad I was sent away.

I will bring you here father, I promise. We will walk the same streets I walked, drink from the same pubs, we will get fat from Sophie’s cooking, and you and Alain will argue about football.

Yes, I will miss Paris. A part of my heart will always belong here. It’s here that I found myself.

I’m sure you will not recognize me at all when you see me. My train arrives at one o’clock. If you cannot find me, make sure to look for the most dashing young man you’ve ever seen. And if that doesn’t work, then look for the one who’s glaring at you.

Your Son,

Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i created some ocs, just so bilbo wasn't completely alone in paris. i really like them a lot. i swear, sophie and alain are so cute. if you don't agree that's okay, i respect your opinion, but i love them.


	3. Meet Me at the Train Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's inevitable return to Erebor is made all the sweeter by an unexpected chauffeur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo, this ch gave me some trouble b/c i wasn't sure where to start it. with frerin and the durins? i tried that and IT SUCKED. so i figured staying with bilbo was best, but we do go a bit into frerin's pov. WE'RE GETTING TO EXCITING STUFF HERE!!  
> okay, so the car Frerin's driving is a 1960 Triumph TR3 Convertible. look it up. that car is HOT. Also, corn lilies mean: remembrance, generosity, sincerity and it also symbolizes strength of character. (take that as you will)

Bilbo clutched the magazine tightly, twisting it in his hands, as he stared out the window, watching the countryside whizz past.

It was idiotic to think that he had gotten over him. There were times when Bilbo had completely forgotten Frerin. Days, weeks, months would pass and his name never flitted through his mind, but one casual glance at a newsstand and it all came rushing back to him.

Engaged! Frerin Durin was engaged. The agony was more than Bilbo could bear.

He bought the damn piece of literature and boarded the train in a daze, reading the two-page spread about the happy couple. Amalia Janson, the daughter of Trenton Janson, founder of Janson Inc., owner of the world’s largest copper mine, merging more than just family names.

She was beautiful, in the way all the people Frerin ever looked at were. She had long, auburn hair, a dainty nose, soft blue eyes. She wasn’t too thin, nor too fat. She had a figure to die for, and a smile that started wars.

Bilbo could feel his insides rotting, his heart slowly sinking into despair. He’d been gone near five years; he should have known this would happen. It’s not like he had a claim on Frerin, not like they had an understanding.

He sighed, leaning his head against the window. There was nothing to be done about it now, he supposed. Perhaps it was all for the best.

* * *

“And where are you going?” Thorin asked over a bowl of cereal, not looking up from his mobile as Frerin passed him, grabbing a strip of bacon and shoving it into his mouth.

Frerin wiped his greasy hands on his jeans, grinning at Thorin. “There’s a horse running in the third,” Frerin answered. “Thinking of buying her.”

“Haven’t you got enough race horses?” Thorin asked, setting aside his spoon. Horses, cars, motorcycles, sailboats, yachts, and on and on went the list. Another hit to Thorin’s checkbook.

It’d been like this for years. Frerin could never settle down, flitting from man to man, woman to woman, buying expensive things with Thorin’s credit card, getting into fights and accidents and scandals, only to come to big brother when things got a little out of his control.

He had no sense of responsibility, no semblance of pride. He was far too jovial and carefree for such nonsensical things as dignity.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, frater,” Frerin grinned, leaning against the table. “You could come with me, you know, instead of going to the office on a Saturday.”

“It’s Friday,” Thorin said, not even surprised. “Which you would know if you came into the office every now and then.”

“I came in last week, didn’t I?”

“To yell at me.”

Frerin laughed, head thrown back, hand on his stomach. “And then wasn’t I a good little boy and stayed in my office the rest of the day? I even signed a whole stack of papers. Wasn’t that just, bully of me?” he replied, checking his watch for the time. “You’re a bit late for the office.”

Thorin held up his phone, “Who says I’m not working?”

“Forgot,” Frerin said, turning with a wave. “Well don’t tire yourself out, Thorin. I’ve got a date with a filly.”

“Don’t forget about the party tonight,” Thorin called after him. “You’ve got to pick up Amalia at 8.”

Frerin muttered a “yeah, yeah” under his breath, kicking at stones in the driveway, avoiding the workmen who rushed past him, setting up tents and tables.

He hopped into his car, grumbling all the while. Big brother always had to ruin his fun, didn’t he?

Amalia was a great girl. She was a real knockout. If Frerin had ever wanted to marry anyone, she’d probably make it onto the top ten list, but that didn’t mean he wanted to actually marry her. He was still young! He had his whole life ahead of him. To be tied down at 31… it was a sin, that’s what it was.

His mother had been ecstatic when she heard the news, and really, he couldn’t go breaking his dear mama’s heart. So he was stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck, and all because Thorin wanted that copper mine in Chile.

He drove off, barely dodging the gardener who had gotten into a row with one of the workers who had trampled all over his corn lilies.

* * *

Bilbo stood just outside the train station, his trunk and bags at his feet, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his yellow waistcoat. He had been waiting near an hour, and his father still had yet to show.

He had called, of course, but his father wouldn’t answer his mobile. Honestly, what was the point of giving him one, if he never used the damn thing.

Just as Bilbo made up his mind, a very familiar baby blue convertible pulled up in front of him. A 1960 Triumph, once owned by Thrain Durin, gifted to his youngest son on his 18th birthday.

“Good morning,” Frerin grinned up at him, his blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun, aviators covering his perfect face.

Bilbo couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. “Good morning,” he replied. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Frerin’s smile dimmed somewhat, taking off the sunglasses to get a better look at Bilbo. “Do we know each other?”

Oh, this was rich. Bilbo found his smile growing wider. “You know, I don’t suppose we do,” was Bilbo’s response.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been stood up?” Frerin asked, taking in the luggage. “My heart breaks. A lovely young man like yourself, left to fend for himself on a cold morning like this.”

Bilbo felt his mind scheming, his smile turning into a smirk. He had the most pleasant thought. “My father was meant to pick me up, but it seems he’s been delayed,” he explained, a pretty pout on his lips. “I was about to call a cab.”

That cinched it. Frerin hopped out of the car and grabbed a suitcase. “You can’t trust cab drivers these days. They charge an arm and a leg, and then bore you with talk of the weather,” he declared. “I’ll take you home personally.”

“You really don’t have to,” Bilbo feebly protested while waving over a porter to help Frerin with the luggage.

“I insist,” Frerin said, ushering Bilbo into the passenger’s seat as the poor porter hauled the large trunk into the back of the car.

Hardly a word was exchanged until Frerin was once again in the driver’s seat, glasses perched on his nose. “Where to, my dear?”

“Where were you going?” Bilbo asked.

“Back home, went to go see about a horse. Very disappointing,” Frerin remarked, zipping past trees and a wandering sheep.

“You keep going that direction then,” Bilbo said. “And I’ll tell you when you’re close.”

Frerin looked at Bilbo in surprise. “We do know each other!” he exclaimed. Bilbo nodded. “Say, what’s your name?”

“Oh no,” Bilbo laughed. “I’m having far too much fun.”

“You’re going to make me figure it out, are you?” Frerin asked. “And you won’t give me a hint?”

“I thought Frerin Durin never forgot a face,” Bilbo remarked, resting his head against his seat, staring wistfully at Frerin. “I’m very disappointed. Here I thought I was the memorable sort.”

Frerin took a good long gaze at Bilbo, brows pinched in concentration, hands drumming on the steering wheel. “I know that face, I just can’t grab the name,” Frerin admitted. “Come on, just one hint.”

Bilbo hummed in thought before saying, “We’re neighbors.”

“Neighbors,” Frerin repeated, suddenly regretting never paying much attention to his neighbors. They were all dull and old. Though apparently, not all of them.

He wracked his brain for the answer, only to come up empty. “Another hint,” Frerin pleaded. “What does your father do?”

“Oh no,” Bilbo declared. “Only one hint.”

“Oil? No? Automobiles, finance, computers, transportation, he’s a lord, a baron?” Frerin guessed, much to Bilbo’s delight. He laughed, shaking his head no. Frerin was good and properly stumped. “Music?”

Bilbo perked up at that, tapping a finger against his chin. “He _does_ spend a great deal of his time in a conservatory,” Bilbo admitted, thinking himself very clever indeed.

“He’s a producer,” Frerin rattled off. “A composer. A musician. An… I give up.”

“We’re here,” Bilbo announced as Frerin slowed down, stuck behind one of the catering trucks. “Are you having a party?”

Frerin lit up, turning to Bilbo and taking his hand. “Would you like to come?”

“To a Durin party!” Bilbo exclaimed, heart thumping loudly.

“We’re neighbors aren’t we? Besides, I won’t rest until I know who you are,” Frerin insisted.

“And I’m invited no matter what?”

“A stampede of elephants couldn’t keep you out.”

Bilbo felt rather pleased with himself as Frerin drove into the garage, both of them looking at one another with stars in their eyes. This was exactly what Bilbo had dreamed of since he was a boy, and now he had it firmly grasped in his hands.

“Hold on,” Frerin suddenly said, looking around. “We’re at my house.”

“I know,” Bilbo said, getting out of the car and grabbing one of the suitcases. From the entrance to the garage he could see his father huffing towards him, along with some of his nosier aunts and uncles. No doubt they had all seen him in Frerin’s car.

Frerin was perfectly confused.

Bilbo rushed out to greet his father, kissing him on both cheeks, wrapping him in a great big hug. He was suddenly swarmed by family, hugs and kisses, and jokes at his expense coming at him a mile a minute.

“Hello, Bilbo,” interrupted a deep, familiar voice. “How was Paris?”

Bilbo looked up from under his uncle’s embrace to find Thorin’s striking blue eyes piercing through him.

“Wonderful,” Bilbo responded.

“I hardly recognized you,” Thorin continued. “You look very grownup.”

“Bilbo!” Frerin crowed, a hand on his forehead. “Bilbo Baggins!” Of all the people in the world, it was Bilbo Baggins.

Frerin hadn’t thought of Bilbo in ages. The last time he saw him, he was a pudgy little thing with dirt on his cheeks. He certainly _had_ grown up!

“Yes,” Thorin told him, “Bilbo Baggins. Are you alright?”

Frerin nodded dumbly, watching Bilbo be led towards the servant cottages, chatting excitedly with the help.

“Don’t forget to pick up Amalia,” Thorin said before getting into his car.

Amalia. How could Thorin speak of Amalia at a time like this? Now that Bilbo Baggins had returned to Erebor.

Frerin grinned, tossing his keys into the air, whistling a ditty as he rushed into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very talky chapter. sorry? there was no way around. 
> 
> (i am trash for dialogue to the point that i forget people should be doing stuff. ahahahaSCREENWRITER!)


	4. Besame Mucho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo goes to Frerin's engagement party, or, Bilbo is here to steal his man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *INCOHERENT SCREAMING* oh my god i had so much fun writing this chapter, and it's almost 5k words b/c i am crazy, apparently.
> 
> Okay, so this is the song, Besame Mucho: [Besame Mucho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCrbQGqHpXw)  
> [And here's the song w/ someone singing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNCxzbW9mtY) and really, this song is so appropriate for everything. it's like the damn theme of this fic. so if you want to translate the lyrics YOU SHOULD.  
> [This is the dress that Freya is wearing ](http://www.lightinthebox.com/sheath-column-v-neck-floor-length-chiffon-evening-dress_p2701951.html?currency=USD&litb_from=paid_adwords_shopping&sku=20_9545&utm_source=google_shopping&utm_medium=cpc&adword_mt=&adword_ct=96444886811&adword_kw=&adword_pos=1o4&adword_pl=&adword_net=g&adword_tar=&adw_src_id=2615402740_361110131_26691678371_pla-161490594971&gclid=Cj0KEQjwmKG5BRDv4YaE5t6oqf0BEiQAwqDNfOhy7-ic3MweJZF5x9eVRcdxGMp8ZsOie5etLH5brG4aAvy98P8HAQ)(cause I can't resist)  
> 

Bungo shoved the last of Bilbo’s bags into his old room, listening to Bilbo chatter on in the sitting room, almost as if his son hadn’t left in the first place. If it weren’t for the trunk at Bilbo’s feet, Bungo could easily believe it.

He had grown, of course he had. He was a little taller now, his hair a bit longer, his clothes fit him better, and he had a confident air about him that Bungo was half afraid Bilbo would never gain. It was hard living as the help.

It seemed Bilbo really had flourished in Paris. He bloomed into a bright eyed young man, ready to take the world by storm, as much as it ached Bungo’s old heart.

“Are you even listening to me?” Bilbo asked, sitting up to glare at his father who was standing in the doorway. He sighed, rushing to his Bungo’s side, wrapping him up in a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

Bungo wiped away an idle tear, patting his boy on the back. “Not enough to visit,” Bungo joked, pulling away from Bilbo and picking up the pipe Bilbo had sent him two Christmases ago. “I’ve got half the mind to throw you out,” Bungo said. “Treating your old man like this.”

“Even after I brought you all that wine,” Bilbo teased. “And Sophie’s gardening secrets?”

Bungo snorted, glad that at least he had been well looked after. Mrs. Durin had promised, of course, but it was nice to know she hadn’t gone back on her word. And speaking of Durins…

“What on earth were you doing in Mr. Frerin’s car?” Bungo asked, pointing his pipe at Bilbo. He had thought he had gotten over his silly infatuation.

Bilbo sighed, throwing himself back into the armchair. “You didn’t show up, you know,” Bilbo said. “I’m the one who should be upset.”

“Those horrible men they hired were trampling all over my flowers,” Bungo bristled at the memory. “I was just about to get you when you arrived.”

“Well he offered me a ride,” Bilbo shrugged. “So I accepted. We were going the same way anyhow.” Bungo frowned. “Father, it was completely innocent, I assure you.”

That was a relief, at least. Frerin was engaged, and Bilbo – Bilbo was too old to get involved in that type of scandal.

“He invited me to the party tonight,” Bilbo smiled, kicking his feet out in excitement. “Can you believe it? Me! At a Durin party.”

That was horrible! Bungo pulled at his braces, puffing away at his pipe. This was not good, not good at all. “You’re not actually going!” Bungo sputtered, unamused by Bilbo’s smiled. “He couldn’t have been serious!”

“He was very serious,” Bilbo replied, rushing towards his bedroom. “He said wild elephants couldn’t keep me away.”

“But you’re the help!”

“I am _not_ the help,” Bilbo reminded his father. “I’m the son of the help. There’s a difference.” He unzipped his garment bag, pulling out a tuxedo.

He could feel the apprehension oozing off his father, hands twisted in worry. Bilbo wanted to tell him that everything was alright, that he was completely over Frerin Durin – but that would be a lie, and he never liked lying to his father.

As far away as he’d been, as happy and as carefree, Frerin would still sneak into his thoughts. He had tried seeing other men, had tried moving on, moving forward, but it wasn’t so easy getting over a first love, especially one as bright as Frerin.

He hadn’t expected to meet him right off, but surely that meant it was fate! They had always said distance makes the heart grow fonder, and seeing Frerin’s face, that dazzling smile directed at him, made Bilbo realize that there was only room in Bilbo’s heart for one man.

“He’s engaged, you know,” Bungo tried. “It’s his engagement party.”

“I’m not going to steal him away,” Bilbo reassured him, pressing a kiss to Bungo’s cheek.  

* * *

Twinkling lights filled the sky, and Bilbo could hear the orchestra playing a waltz as he walked on the pebbled path, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He passed the old oak tree, his dearest and closest friend on nights like these, spent up in its branches, watching and wishing.

He took a deep breath, pulling at his dinner jacket. Now was not the time to be nervous. He had been invited. He belonged here.

He could feel eyes watching him as he casually grabbed a champagne glass, winking at his cousin Falco who whistled under his breath, sneaking in a thumbs up as he passed by with a plate full of shrimp cocktails. No doubt he was going to report to his mother, who would then tell everyone else that Bilbo Baggins had lost his mind.

Bilbo gulped down the champagne, placing the empty glass on a passing tray, trying to remember what Gandalf had taught him about these parties. _They’re all just as boring as they seem,_ Gandalf had said. _Everyone there wants to show off how much money they have. The best option is to become as inebriated as soon as possible._

He could easily do that.

He grabbed another champagne glass, raising it at the small group that had gathered in the far corner, just behind the chocolate fountain. It seemed Falco and Aunt Chica worked faster than he had given them credit for.

“You look divine.”

Bilbo turned, nearly spilling his champagne over Frerin’s white dinner jacket. “You scared me,” Bilbo replied, a hand to his chest. He could hear his heart thumping, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

Frerin grinned, taking the glass from Bilbo’s hand and setting it on an empty table. He grabbed Bilbo’s elbow, leading him towards the dance floor.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” Frerin admitted, placing a hand on Bilbo’s back, gently taking their hands together. “I was certain Thorin had gotten to you.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise, allowing himself to be led around the dance floor. “What does Thorin have to do with anything?” he asked, relaxing under Frerin’s arms, the warmth of his touch seeping into Bilbo’s bones.

“He told me that it was highly inappropriate,” Frerin snorted as they reversed, their bodies inching closer with every step. “Inviting someone to my engagement party. I’m sure if he saw me now he’d have a hissy fit.”

“He’s right, you know,” Bilbo replied, breathing in his cologne. He couldn’t have him, but he could pretend. He could remember this moment and be happy he had this much. “Where is the bride to be?”

Frerin inched closer, cheek pressing down against Bilbo’s a gust of breath against his ear as he said, “It was all Thorin’s idea. I don’t want to marry her.”

His heart bled, an ache so profound that Bilbo felt as if he was being torn in half. Frerin was being married off, arranged nice and neatly to keep the family name clean. How horrible. He could feel his temper rising, and he glared around him, looking for the culprit behind Frerin’s unhappiness. “The brute,” Bilbo grunted, only to be soothed by Frerin squeezing his hand.

“True, but he’s my brother and I love him just the same,” Frerin admitted. “If only you were here to stop me, Bilbo. If only you had been here.”

It was something Bilbo would forever curse. If only he _had_ been here, instead of parading around Paris. Damn it all.

“How was Paris?” Frerin asked as the song ended and the applause died down, a hand on Bilbo’s back, leading him towards an empty table. “Thorin said you studied art.”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied. “Have you been asking about me?”

Frerin laughed, that deep, rich laugh that Bilbo would only hear from a distance. How pure it sounded up close, how beautiful. “I’m guilty,” he grinned. “To think you’ve been living no more than a 100 meters away my whole life, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed by your presence, I can’t seem to get enough of you.”

Bilbo blushed, stumbling backwards and into an empty chair. “I have that effect on people,” Bilbo responded, mouth dry.

“Look,” Frerin whispered, leaning over him, arm braced against the table, the other on the back of Bilbo’s chair, mouth a hair width’s away from Bilbo’s own. “Meet me in the conservatory. I’ll bring champagne.”

“And you’ll have the orchestra play _Besame Mucho_ ,” Bilbo continued for him, fingers clutching onto Frerin’s lapel. Frerin’s brows raised in surprise, much to Bilbo’s amusement. “I spent quite a lot of my youth in that tree over there,” he pointed. “Watching you romance every man and woman you set your eye on.”

“I don’t know whether to feel guilty or not,” Frerin mumbled, making Bilbo giggle, his nose wrinkling in delight. He had Frerin completely enchanted.

Bilbo rose, placing a soft kiss to Frerin’s chin. “Meet me there in ten,” Bilbo told him. “And I adore the pink champagne.”

He rushed off, his deep red dinner jacket disappearing behind a tide of people. Frerin’s heart soared. He had never felt like this about anyone. God, Bilbo was _the one_.

He couldn’t marry Amalia now. He just had to tell Thorin. Later. Now, he had a date in the conservatory.

* * *

“Who’s that?” Dis asked, cradling Kili against her chest, Fili snoring into Thorin’s neck. “That pretty thing dancing with Frerin?”

Thorin ceased his conversation with Trenton Janson, whipping his head towards Frerin who was pressed awfully close to Bilbo Baggins.

That fool of a man! What was he doing, making love to someone who wasn’t his fiancé? Thorin was going to rip off his arms. That would teach him to hold Bilbo that close.

He had been surprised to find Bilbo at the party. He had tried keeping tabs on him, but somewhere he had lost track of him. Frerin should be holding Amalia in his arms right now, and where was Amalia, anyhow? She had promised to stick to Frerin like glue.

“Yes, who is that?” Mr. Janson echoed, lips pursing in displeasure.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin grunted, glaring at his brother and Bilbo. “He’s an old childhood friend,” he explained to Janson, who didn’t seem to buy it.

“I’ve never gotten cozy with a friend like that,” he said.

Dis shot Thorin a meaningful look and he nodded. “Well, he and Frerin were inseparable as children. He’s just come back from Paris, and no doubt they’re catching up. If you’ll excuse me,” Thorin said, handing the snoozing Fili to Dwalin who seemed less concerned about the whole affair than he should be.

Then again, he had spent all evening drinking, so he probably hadn’t realized.

Thorin headed towards the opposite end of the party where his mother stood, bedecked in a gorgeous, pink, gown, laughing with her closest friends. They all cooed at the sight of Thorin, pinching his cheeks – and bum, he really didn’t like Mrs. Redding – demanding a dance for stealing their hostess away.

“What’s the matter, pigeon?” Freya asked, placing a dainty hand on his arm, concern written on her face.

“It’s Frerin,” Thorin said, wrapping his mother’s hand over his arm as he led her towards the house.

She sighed, searching for him within the crowd, only to find him crowding Bilbo Baggins in his seat. “Bilbo’s returned!” she exclaimed, a smile blooming on her face before realization set in. “Oh no.”

“Precisely,” Thorin replied.

Freya frowned. “He’s such a nice boy,” she lamented. “He wrote me letters while he was in Paris.”

She watched as Bilbo kissed Frerin before slipping away. This was not supposed to happen. She was very fond of Bilbo, and she had tried to so hard to keep his heart intact, but it seemed it was all for naught. “Bring Frerin to the study,” Freya ordered, letting Thorin go with a pat on the arm.

Thorin nodded, kissing his mother on the cheek.

* * *

Frerin snuck past the guests, dodging Amalia as she pouted to her mother how she couldn’t find Frerin anywhere. If he was lucky, he’d keep it that way.

He snuck by the champagne table, dodging waiters and drunkards, as he grabbed two champagne glasses and fit one each in the back pockets of his trousers. He straightened out his dinner jacket, making sure it properly covered the glasses. It was a bit conspicuous but it would do in a pinch.

He plucked a bottle of champagne from among the mass and grinned. Just the bottle he was looking for.

“The Blason Rosé, good choice,” Thorin said, a hand on Frerin’s shoulder.

Frerin froze; he had completely forgotten about Thorin. It would have been too good to be true to not get caught by him. “I like the best,” Frerin muttered.

“I know,” Thorin replied, leading Frerin towards the house.

“Look, I have an important meeting,” Frerin tried, struggling against his brother’s strong hold. “Honest, you’re always saying I need to get more involved in the company – ”

Thorin’s grip grew tighter and Frerin resigned himself to his fate. His brother would yell, his mother would be disappointed, and Dis would just make fun of him, in the most biting words possible. He’d been through this more times than he could count.

The study door opened before they reached it, Dis smirking up at Frerin, waggling her fingers under chin in greeting. It seemed like the Inquisition would begin immediately.

“I really have to be going,” Frerin began as Thorin locked the door behind them. He smiled at Freya who stood at the other end of the room. “Mother, you look divine.”

Freya shook her head, the disappointment evident as she said, “Frerin, what are you doing?”

“Currently, trying to get out of here,” he replied, much to nobody’s amusement. He wasn’t going to get out of this that easily. “I was dancing!”

Dis scoffed, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Frerin glared at her. If he wanted her input, he’d ask for it.

“I thought that I had raised you better than this,” Freya said. “Yet somehow you’re out there making love to a man who is _not_ your fiancé! Parading around like some Casanova. Have you no self-respect? No thought for Amalia who, might I add, has been searching for you all night?”

“I was catching up with an old friend,” Frerin defended, gesturing with the champagne bottle. “I was being nice.”

Dis rolled her eyes. “Sometimes you can be too nice, Frerin,” she stated. “It’s embarrassing, watching you make love to a servant’s son.”

“Bilbo is not a servant,” Frerin pointed out, glancing at Thorin who just stood there, hands in his trouser pockets. He looked like he was enjoying this. “You all like Bilbo.”

“I do,” Freya agreed. “I adore him. He’s like a son to me. And that’s why I can’t have you treating him like this.”

“Like what! A human being? An equal?” Frerin demanded. “He’s been watching us from up a tree his whole life, and I am giving him the chance to be a part of this world, even if it’s for a night. I’m a saint.”

“Just shut up,” Dis groaned, a hand to her head.

“I won’t shut up,” Frerin shot back. “I’m in love with him.”

There was a moment of silence before Dis began cursing under her breath, Freya clutching a hand to her heart, completely astounded.

Thorin wondered what gods he had pissed off to have such an idiotic brother. Hadn’t he tried to do right by his family? Didn’t he work hard? Didn’t he spend time with his nephews, spoil his sister, take care of his brother, dote on his mother? Surely someone somewhere would finally decide to cut him a break.

“I am,” Frerin insisted. “There’s just something about him, I’ve never felt like this.” He strode across the room, setting his champagne bottle on a table and gathering his mother’s hands in his. “I’m crazy about him, mother.”

Thorin felt a migraine bloom at his temples, only to be squashed by the very convenient cough by Dis. He looked at her, she looked at him. She raised an eyebrow and gestured with her eyes towards Frerin’s backside.

Oh. Oh!

“I think Frerin’s right,” Thorin finally spoke up, much to everyone’s surprise. “We are forcing Amalia on him.”

“That was your idea,” Dis reminded him, not quite sure where Thorin was going with this train of thought.

“Perhaps I was too hasty,” Thorin answered. “I think it’s only fair that Frerin has some say in his future.”

Frerin smiled, his face lighting up as he asked, “Really?”

“Thorin, what are you saying?” Freya asked, confusion evident. Hadn’t he been the one to bring up the situation in the first place.

“I think we should all sit down,” Thorin said, leading Frerin to a chair, “and talk about this like a family.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Frerin replied, sitting down, a horrible _crunch_ filling the air. His face lit up in pain and he threw his head back with a whimper.

Freya gasped, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“The glasses,” he managed to say, teeth gritted in pain. “I sat on the champagne glasses.”

* * *

Bilbo hummed along with the song drifting through the open door, swaying along with the rhythm. He had never dreamed in a million years that he’d be here in the conservatory, waiting for Frerin, of all people.

He smiled at the blooming flowers around him, his father’s pride and joy. Those were the dahlias, the African violets, the lilies, and so on and so forth. He had spent his youth running amongst these plants, his father lecturing him on the care, on the meanings.

The soft strings of a waltz began to waft into the conservatory along with the soft footfalls of Frerin. Finally.

Bilbo spun around, a great smile on his face, only for it to fall, as he stared back at Thorin Durin.

“What – What are you doing here?” Bilbo asked, his heart thudding, palms sweating. “Where’s Frerin?”

“He got held up,” Thorin replied, taking a step forward, his deep blue jacket bringing out the color of his eyes, the moonlight softening his features. He held up two flute glasses in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. His hair had lost its usual neatness, a curl falling over his eye. “He sent me in his place.”

Bilbo looked away. The roses in the corner seemed to laugh at him. That’s what you get for getting your hopes up. “He’s not coming, is he,” Bilbo said, fiddling with his buttons.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” Thorin said. “But no.”

He should have known. It was simply too good to be true. “I should get going,” Bilbo replied, with a soft smile, disappointment making its home in his heart.

“You’re upset,” Thorin stated, taking another step closer to Bilbo. “It’s not every day you agree to meet Frerin and get the other brother instead.”

Bilbo blushed, his nerves unable to bear another moment of this. He was a fool, he knows it. He didn’t need Thorin rubbing salt into the wound.

“I may not be as charming or handsome as Frerin,” Thorin continued, handing off the glasses to Bilbo so he could open the champagne bottle. “But he gave me a quick lesson before coming down here.”

“Where is he?” Bilbo asked, watching as Thorin poured the champagne – pink, just like Bilbo asked.

Thorin chuckled slightly before a guilty look crossed his face. “The A&E,” he said, as Bilbo gasped, nearly dropping his champagne. “Now don’t worry about him,” Thorin reassured. “Just a minor accident. A few stitches, a couple of painkillers, and he’ll be as right as rain.”

“I should go see him,” Bilbo decided.

Thorin caught his arm, holding him in place. He shook his head, a pout on his lips, and wasn’t that an unusual look.

Bilbo’s entire life was spent watching the Durins from afar, and never had he seen Thorin as anything other than proud and stately. He was always frowning, always brooding, always too busy to laugh and have fun. He was Frerin’s total opposite, and now here he stood, teasing him.

That could be the only way to describe Thorin now. A hint of mischief in his eyes, teasing Bilbo. Perhaps Frerin wasn’t at the hospital. Perhaps he was locked in his room, trapped in the trunk of a car, forced to stay there until the matter of Bilbo Baggins was taken care of.

“After I came all this way to deliver Frerin’s message?” Thorin asked, drinking his champagne in one gulp, placing his empty glass on a table.

He grabbed Bilbo’s full flute and placed it aside his empty one and pulled Bilbo into his arms. “I’m not very good at this, but you’ll have to forgive me,” Thorin grinned, slowly leading Bilbo into the waltz.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo grumbled, too tired and too confused to pull away.

“I told you,” Thorin replied, “Frerin sent me.”

As the song ended, Bilbo grabbed his drink and downed it quickly. He was far too sober to understand what was happening to him. “What was his message, then?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin plucked the glass out of Bilbo’s hand and served him some more champagne. “You’ve caused an uproar in the family,” Thorin commented, handing back the glass. “That wasn’t the message, I just felt like telling you. He’s engaged to be married, you know.”

“I know,” Bilbo snapped. “I’m not some child you can talk down to. Not anymore.”

Thorin chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that seemed to burst forth from his stomach, almost as if he wasn’t accustomed to making such noises. “I never said you were,” Thorin assured him. “You’re awfully defensive.”

“You’re awfully rude.”

“You’re right,” Thorin said. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology not accepted.”

Thorin set down his champagne and crossed his arms. “When we were kids he was kicked by a horse. Nothing serious, just a bout of amnesia for an hour or two, of course it never would have happened if he had listened to me when I told him not to pull the horse’s tail,” Thorin explained. “But that’s Frerin for you. He always pulls the horse’s tail.”

“What’s your point?” Bilbo sniffed.

“He’s forgotten all about Amalia Janson,” Thorin continued. “And seems to have become attached to you. He thinks he loves you.”

Bilbo closed his eyes. If he opened them he’d wake up, and he didn’t want to wake from this wonderful dream. “And I love him,” Bilbo revealed. “I’ve loved him my whole life.”

“Yes,” Thorin said. “I know.” Bilbo opened his eyes. “I do pay attention, Bilbo.”

“Have you no objections?” Bilbo asked, shuffling backwards, the back of his shoes hitting a planter.

“I’ve always liked you, Bilbo,” Thorin smiled. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty in marrying him off. Perhaps you could make a man of him.”

“Aren’t I putting a dent in your plans?” Bilbo asked. “Father mentioned something like a merger.”

Thorin tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “I’d like another dance,” Thorin stated, wrapping his arms around Bilbo once more. “This _was_ part of the message. It’s all in the family anyhow.”

Bilbo let himself be spun around, his mind spinning along with him. Shouldn’t Thorin be trying to talk him out of a scandal? Shouldn’t he be taking out his checkbook, offering hundreds of thousands of pounds to get rid of him? “I thought you were sent to take care of me,” Bilbo said into Thorin’s shoulder.

He had at least a good six inches on Frerin, his shoulders broader, his arms thicker. It was nothing like Frerin at all. It was nigh impossible to feel comfortable in his grasp.

“Take care of you,” Thorin rumbled in his ear. “Isn’t that what I’m doing now?”

“Like in movies,” Bilbo replied. “Or in a play. The young prince falls in love with a waitress – ”

“Waiter,” Thorin interrupted, flashing his white teeth down at Bilbo as he reversed.

Bilbo nodded. “A waiter, or a rent boy, or the gardener’s son. They send the duke to take care of him,” Bilbo explained. He furrowed his brow and took on a deeper voice. “ _We’re willing to offer you ten thousand pounds to stay away from him.”_

“’ _No_ ,’ he says,” Thorin picked up the story.

“’ _Fifty thousand!’ ‘No.’”_

 _“_ One hundred thousand,” Thorin offered, the dance over, Bilbo glaring up at him.

“No.”

“One million.”

“No.”

“No self-respecting Duke would offer less,” Thorin teased. “Or lawyer. Or Prime minister. Or whoever’s the bad guy in this picture.”

Bilbo stepped away, anger seeping through him, steadying him as he said, “No self-respecting waiter would take it.”

“I like this waiter,” Thorin commented. “He’s a good man.”

“He ought to be,” Bilbo replied.

He looked down at his shoes, feeling small, as _Besame Mucho_ began to play. Now the damn orchestra was teasing him. He didn’t need to be reminded of what he couldn’t possibly have. “They played this the night before I left.”

“They usually play this song,” Thorin said.

“Frerin was here,” Bilbo remembered. “Dancing with some woman. Tonight I wanted it to be me.”

Thorin touched his shoulder and held out his hand. “It’s all in the family,” he smirked as led Bilbo in the dance.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Bilbo mumbled, pretending those were Frerin’s arms, his cologne, his humming.

It was like a dream. It was a dream. Bilbo had yearned for tonight to be his night. He should have known better than to hope, but he had had it so close. This could have been the beginning of something absolutely wonderful.

“Bilbo,” Thorin breathed, “If Frerin were here right now, you’d expect him to kiss you, wouldn’t you.”

Bilbo hummed, lost in his thoughts. A kiss from Frerin was precisely what would make the fantasy all the more real, all the more perfect. If only, if only.

“This one’s from Frerin,” Thorin said as he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Bilbo’s.

Bilbo’s couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stare wildly at Thorin as he pulled away. “It’s all in the family,” he said, the song ending and the faint sound of applause filling the air.

His hand acted before he could think, slapping Thorin hard across the cheek. The sound echoed within the small conservatory and Bilbo could do nothing more than fume. The audacity, the nerve, the – the – he just slapped Thorin Durin!

Bilbo stumbled backwards, his hand stinging, cheeks red and his head pounding.

“Thank you,” Thorin muttered, running a hand through his hair, mussing it further.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo squeaked. “I – I shouldn’t have – ”

“Don’t apologize,” Thorin growled. “You can see Frerin tomorrow.”

He gathered up the glasses and the half empty champagne bottle, not sparing Bilbo a single glance as he strode out of the conservatory.


	5. The Better Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are set in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's the better man? Frerin? Thorin? Bungo??? the footman who likes to wear dis' high heels when she's not around??? WHO KNOWS.   
> This chapter took me a while b/c i couldn't get thorin out of frerin's room and off to do stuff. they kept talking for ages and i couldn't get them to shut up. this is what happens when you love dialogue and no one is around to tell you you aren't witty.   
> But as it is, update!!

The door opened just a crack, just wide enough for two very small heads to peak in. Fili looked down at his brother with a finger to his lips, Kili shushing faintly in response, his head nodding in time. They both crept into the room, their socked feet padding against the hardwood floor.

They stepped over strewn clothes and shoes, putting fingers in front of their mouths whenever they made a sound. This was a secret important mission from Mama. They couldn’t fail!

Fili stopped his brother once they reached the bed. He pointed at himself, then Kili, then the bed. Kili nodded.

Little arms wrapped around Kili’s stomach and up, up, up, he was lifted, grabbing hold of the bedsheets to steady himself. Fili pushed his bottom until his feet were safely atop the bed and then it was Fili’s turn.

He hopped up, catching his hand on the duvet, and swinging his legs over. Kili clapped his hands in delight once his brother was beside him, only to be shushed. Secret mission!

Kili covered his face. He almost forgot!

Their target was currently face down in his pillow, snoring loudly, the bedsheets pooled at his feet. Fili and Kili nodded at each other, both of them raising their fists in unison, and began pounding on their uncle’s back.

“Uncle Frerin!” they shouted, pounding and jumping and rolling all over Frerin, tiny elbows accidentally hitting his gluteal injury. “Wake up!”

Frerin jolted up, letting out a high pitched wail, the boys rolling off the bed in a fit of giggles. “You monsters,” Frerin groaned, flopping back into bed, his posterior on fire. He was stuck here, in this bed, for all eternity, with nothing but tiny rapscallions as company.

This was his life. Where had he gone wrong?

“Alright, off, off,” Thorin ordered as he walked into Frerin’s bedroom. Fili and Kili groaned in unison as they clambered off the bed, only to squeal in delight as Thorin picked them up, throwing one nephew over each shoulder. “Uncle Frerin's hurt, remember?”

“He popped his butt,” Kili commented, kicking his feet in excitement.

Fili rolled his eyes. Little brothers were so dumb. “He didn’t pop his butt. You can’t pop butts,” Fili told him. “He broke it.”

“Oooh.”

“The three stooges,” Frerin muttered, attempting to arrange himself into a more comfortable position, his attempts fruitless. The only way to lie was on his stomach, much to his dismay.

There were two soft _thud_ s as Thorin put the boys back on the ground, their giggles growing faint as they scurried out of the room, bored with their uncles. Their mission was accomplished, and now it was time for breakfast!

“You’re in a good mood,” Thorin commented, giving Frerin’s backside a good long poke. He smiled as Frerin let out a whine. “Anesthetics worn off.”

“I hate you,” Frerin growled, attempting to look dignified as he planted his head on his crossed arms. He had spent the entire night in the hospital, rear up, quietly weeping as he thought of Bilbo in the conservatory, waiting for him. “This is all your fault.”

Thorin bent over so they were face to face. “Didn’t I go talk to Bilbo for you?” Thorin reminded him. “Aren’t I the one who supported you? And aren’t I the one with a present for you?”

Frerin lit up, eyes on the wrapped package under Thorin’s eyes. However, he wasn’t going to be distracted by gifts. “Was he mad?” Frerin asked as Thorin unwrapped the package, some strange plastic roll in his hands.

Mad? By the time Thorin was done with him, he was furious. “Just disappointed,” Thorin said, unrolling his plastic with a smile. “I had to make some phone calls, but you’ll love it.”

“What is it? What’d you tell him?”

“It’s a surprise,” Thorin told him, kicking back the mess in Frerin’s room. He hung one end up of his surprise on a hook on the wall, and the other on the knob of a bookcase. “And I told him the truth. That you stood up for him, like a man.”

“You’re a pal,” Frerin crowed.

“And sat down, like an idiot,” Thorin grinned, presenting the plastic hammock, hand waving through a perfectly circular hole in the middle of the horrible thing. “What do you think? A bit rudimentary, but you’re worth it.”

Frerin furrowed his brows at the contraption. “What’s that?”

“The answer to your prayers,” Thorin answered, lifting his brother up, much to Frerin’s surprise, and depositing him, face up, onto the hammock. His bottom fell right into the hole: a perfect fit.

Frerin grinned, putting his hands behind his head. He’d never say another bad thing about Thorin ever again. He was the best brother in the whole wide world. “Invite Bilbo up,” Frerin said. “Seeing his lovely face will ease my suffering.”

Thorin kicked at Frerin’s behind, enjoying the sound of his yelp. “Twenty-three stitches, Frer, can’t be soothed that easily,” he replied.

“You’re right,” Frerin pouted. “Besides, how’d we sneak him in without being ratted out? Fili and Kili would reveal any secret for a piece of chocolate. And if mother saw him…”

“More like Amalia,” Thorin reminded him with a raised brow. “She’s on her way as we speak.”

“I forgot all about her!” Frerin exclaimed. “I’ve got to break the engagement!”

Thorin patted his shoulder, stopping himself from digging his nails into his flesh and ripping off the arm completely. “Leave everything to me,” Thorin reassured him. “Mother, Amalia, Bilbo - everything."

“You’re a real brother,” Frerin chirped, “A real man among men.”

* * *

Thorin was immune to guilt.

When you worked in the cutthroat business of mining, there came a time in your life when you simply had to grin and bear it. You had to think in numbers and figures; you weren’t a humanitarian; you weren’t some do-gooder. It was business, plain and simple.

Perhaps that’s why lying to Frerin was so easy.

He calmly made his way to his suite, undoing his tie as he went, a plan quickly forming in his mind. It was simple. If Bilbo was so infatuated of Frerin, then Thorin simply had to displace that infatuation onto someone else.

Bilbo had pined for years from just beyond the garden. If some other man were to make his advances, no doubt Bilbo would fall, and fall hard.

The sound of shouting greeted him as he entered his rooms, Fili and Kili jumping on the couch as the television played some ridiculous cartoon. Dis sat in an armchair, flipping through a dog eared novel, left aside by Thorin on one of his nights plagued with insomnia.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, tossing the book aside to fold her arms, her imperiousness unhindered by her hollering children.

“We?” Thorin asked, sidestepping the hysteria for the privacy of his bedroom, attempting to close the door only for Dis to get in the way. What was the point of having his own rooms if no one ever left him alone in them?

“Yes, we,” Dis said, closing the door behind her, lounging on the bed as Thorin ensconced himself in the closet. “I was thinking I’d go talk to him. Bilbo, I mean. I tried talking to Frerin; he only ignored me.”

Thorin grunted at all the appropriate breaks as he searched his closet, only half listening to her.

Dis rubbed her temples and sighed, “We could just tie him up and send him back to Paris. I hate this. I really like Bilbo, he actually payed attention to me when we were kids. Let me dress him up in my dresses without a word of complaint.”

“That’s because he was afraid his father would get fired if he didn’t,” Thorin called back, slipping on a pair of jeans. “I’ve got it all under control, all right. Don’t worry.”

“That worries me more,” Dis muttered. “What are you doing in there?”

Thorin came out of the closet tugging on a striped jumper, the poor thing a size too small, the sleeves ending just before his wrists. He scowled at Dis’ laughter, ignoring her to look at himself in the mirror.

He looked like an idiot.

“What are you even wearing?” Dis managed between chuckles.

“I’m taking Bilbo horseback riding,” Thorin told her. “Or I will, once I convince him.” He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a t-shirt. It was one of those gifts of Frerin, back when he was convinced he could make Thorin less uptight. The experiment had failed, but Thorin kept the gifts. It was his credit card that had bought them anyway.

Dis stood there stunned, the wheels in her head turning. “You’re going to woo him,” Dis breathed. “I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t think I can do it?” Thorin asked, smoothing down the shirt, cursing the thinness of the material and the deep v-cut that showed off much more chest hair than he was comfortable with.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Dis said. “I used to have bets with my school friends about your sexuality. You were never interested in anyone, you didn’t keep porn, you never called anyone attractive. I was pretty sure the only thing that turned you on was lumps of coal.”

Thorin frowned. “Is there a point to this story?”

“I’m just saying, I’m not surprised by this turn of events,” Dis smirked.

“I’m not interested in him,” Thorin told her. “Frerin has the attention span of a goldfish. The less he sees of Bilbo, the sooner he’ll be forgotten. And if someone happens to come along and charm Bilbo away in the meantime… It’s all part of the plan. Now how do I look?”

Dis wore a sad, wistful sort of smile. It looked as if she were ready to say something, words just on the tip of her tongue, but instead she shook her head and said, “Like you’re trying too hard. Put on a jacket or something.”

* * *

Bilbo tried taming his wild curls, spending a good ten minutes in front of the mirror, much to Bungo’s chagrin. He wanted to speak up, say,  _Now look here, son. Stop all this Frerin nonsense._ And he had thought he'd grown right out of the infatuation.

Just goes to show you can’t always count your flowers before they sprout. Sometimes the seeds just won’t grow, no matter how much you nurture them.

“If he’s all banged up like you said,” Bungo said as Bilbo tried to position one errant curl perfectly over his temple, “I don’t think he’ll notice how you look.”

Bilbo huffed, finding just a bit of truth in his father’s words. There was also the possibility that they wouldn’t even let him inside the house, let alone see Frerin. At least he’d look the part of the mistreated lover. “I know, father,” Bilbo said. “I just – it’s more for my own sake.”

Bungo put on his straw hat, knowing he could put off going to work for so long. “I’ll be off then,” Bungo said, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder in farewell. He just had to have faith, that was all. Faith that Bilbo would make the right decision.

Bilbo let out a sigh of relief once his father had gone; he had been breathing down his neck since he woke up. If what Thorin said was true, then he had a chance. If Thorin wasn’t really planning on sending him away, then he could make Frerin properly fall in love with him.

He frowned at his reflection. Thorin.

That – that – that horrible beast of a man. Kissing him! The audacity, the nerve, the – Bilbo hid his face in his hands, his cheeks going hot. Whether it really was a message from Frerin or not was beside the point. Thorin shouldn’t have tried taking advantage of him.

But it was an amazing kiss – not some awkward teeth and spit kiss of the inexperienced. How many men – women? men? people? – people had had the honor of kissing Thorin Durin? How many had felt the soft bristle of his beard caressing their face, the faint scent of oak on his skin, his warm tongue teasing at their lips?

Bilbo staggered backwards, astonished with himself. Frerin was the one he was in love with! _You’ve had plenty of good kisses in your time,_ Bilbo reminded himself. _No need to go lose your head over this one._

“Hello? Bilbo?”

“Shit,” Bilbo cursed, knocking his knee into the coffee table as he spun around, hopping about on one foot as Thorin came into his home.

“The door was open,” Thorin called out as he stepped into the foyer, hearing noise from sitting room and making his way over, only to catch Bilbo angrily chastising the fiendish coffee table for doing its job. “And I knocked. Is this a bad time?”

Bilbo straightened, cheeks red and curls disarrayed, despite all his hard work to tame them. “Good morning,” he said. “No. Not bad. Just. I hit myself.”

“Oh,” came Thorin’s witty reply, looking at the offending piece of furniture. “Are you alright?”

“Just a wounded pride,” Bilbo said, side stepping the table. “Did you need something?”

Thorin nodded, his confusion melding into guilt. “I wanted to apologize about my behavior last night,” he began, his statement obviously rehearsed. Bilbo wondered if Thorin had practiced in the mirror, schooling his features into the perfect face of remorse. He doubted Thorin had done much apologizing in his lifetime. 

“I could easily blame it on the champagne, or the atmosphere, or the way your cheeks flushed so prettily as you lost your temper,” Thorin continued, Bilbo’s heart thumping violently within his chest. Prettily? Him? “But I know it was all my own fault, and for that I beg forgiveness.”

Bilbo could only stare dumbly as Thorin bowed his head, his dark hair falling over his eyes. It seemed he had gotten himself worked up over nothing. “Apology accepted,” Bilbo stuttered, startled as Thorin beamed at him.

He really was quite handsome when he smiled, Bilbo thought absently, his whole face losing its harsh frown lines, his deep blue eyes less like the ocean during a storm and more like a sparkling sea under the sun. How much older he looked when he was frowning, scowling, that serious look on his face; it was no wonder Frerin had been written off as the handsomer brother, but if anyone had seen that smile, Bilbo was certain they would realize their mistake in a heartbeat.

And that was not an appropriate line of thinking. “How’s Frerin?” Bilbo asked, tearing his eyes away from Thorin, needing to get his palpitating heart under control. It was his strange behavior making Bilbo nervous, that must be it. That was surely the reason.

“He’ll live,” Thorin answered, smile diminishing, much to Bilbo’s relief. “He asked for you.”

“Did he?” Bilbo asked, warmth filling his chest.

“Unfortunately, his fiancé is watching over him,” Thorin said. Bilbo’s heart sunk; he had completely forgotten about her. As if his fantasies had come true, the woman suddenly deciding she had better things to do, leaving Frerin for Bilbo. It was a harsh reality, remembering that even if Frerin felt an ounce of what Bilbo felt, he was still the “other man”. The secret of a hushed up affair.

It felt quite a bit like one of the operettas Gandalf had taken him to see.

If Bilbo were the hero in an operetta – but he wasn’t the hero, he was the mistress. The mistress was always spurned at the end. “That’s that, I suppose,” Bilbo said to himself, feeling quite the fool.

“You’re giving up already?” Thorin asked. “I thought you had more backbone than that.”

“Are you saying you don’t mind me mucking up your matchmaking?” Bilbo asked. “It’s got to be a relief for you.”

Thorin shrugged, his bomber jacket straining at the shoulders.

Bilbo blinked, just noticing that he wasn’t in a suit, his mind so filled with thoughts of Frerin and kisses that he hadn’t cast a proper look on Thorin until now. He had never seen him out of properly tailored suits, even his casual wear tended towards slacks and cardigans. “What are you wearing?” Bilbo asked, perplexed.

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” Thorin responded. “I knew it.” He cut himself off, glaring at his boots. He seemed to come to a decision, for he looked back at Bilbo and said, “Mother said you studied painting, and I was wondering, hoping really, if you’d be interested in a job.”

“Painting your portrait?” Bilbo tried.

Thorin ran a nervous hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Not a portrait,” Thorin said. “It’s best if I just take you.”

He seemed so flustered that Bilbo felt it best to take him out of his misery. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll just grab my sketchbook.”

It occurred to Bilbo as Thorin led him towards a sleek and fine horse, persuading him to get on, as if everyone was born with the chance to ride when they were young, that he was not to be trusted; but then he’d smile, a tiny thing, hardly noticeable, and Bilbo found himself wanting to trust him with his heart. He couldn’t do it alone, he reasoned. He needed a partner, he told himself.

But really, Bilbo just enjoyed the sight of Thorin astride a horse, his powerful thighs hugging the saddle, his hair blowing in the summer breeze, the way he sat quietly and let Bilbo work, not even hovering over his shoulder as he did a rough sketch of Erebor. And when Bilbo held up his sketchbook for critique, Thorin was firm and honest, yet complimentary.

It wasn’t until he arrived back home, invitation to dine tomorrow evening accepted, that Bilbo realized Frerin hadn’t crossed his mind all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: trying out this new thing! If you like the fic, how about offering a fip?  
> [Buy Me a Coffee](https://ko-fi.com/A5571CJ)
> 
> (why is thorin so hot? seriously. it should be illegal. bilbo's thirst is probably just a projection of my own)


	6. First Date - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin go on their first "not-date" date. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow. So if you follow my other fics you'll know that I've tackled my writer's block, and hopefully you have a bunch of updates to look forward to.   
> If you don't, then take note of the above. Lot of stuff went on this past year (i can't believe it's been a year since i've updated. i am trash) like moving and getting into grad school and getting my sewing machine back ;) these are important things to know.   
> i had the first half of this ch written for as long as you have been waiting. sorry. but i'm super pumped to continue this fic!!

Thorin sat in his office, rhythmically tapping a pen against his thigh as one of his employees quivered before him. He pulled at his paisley tie, the deep burgundy giving his skin a sickly pallor, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. He stuttered through his presentation, but what it was about, Thorin wasn’t too sure.

He had stopped listening since before the man had introduced himself, Thorin’s mind preoccupied completely with other matters.

Their horse riding excursion – not a date, no matter how many times Dis claimed it to be – went surprisingly well. He couldn’t depend on himself to truly woo Bilbo in the same way Frerin could, but having faith in his artistic abilities seemed a more natural course.

His mother had always wanted a painting of Erebor, one she could put in the library, to sooth her during those harsh winter months. Bilbo was a fine artist, his silly doodles and drawings he had gifted Freya as a boy hinted at his talent, and when he had asked for a letter of recommendation to ENSBA, Thorin had made a point to research his work.

It made sense, Thorin had decided, to have him do the job for them. He had had many successful shows in Paris; there was no need for him to stop painting just because he was in Erebor. It was just a small nudge in the right direction. Remind him of what he truly loved, his talents, his gifts.

And if Bilbo’s eyes lit up as he worked, his concentration nearly unbreakable aside from a rumble of his stomach calling for luncheon, his smile brightening his face as he ate, laughing as he told an embarrassing story from his school days - Thorin offering one of his own as well - that was no one’s business but their own.

“Mr. Durin?” the man said, pulling at that awful tie, torn about whether he should leave Thorin in peace or continue his awful presentation.

“I think I’ll just read the report on my own,” Thorin told him, flipping through the thick packet on his desk, hoping it was a far more interesting read than his employee let on.

The man nodded, gathering his things and hustling out of Thorin’s office, nearly bumping into Ori in the doorway. Ori watched him go, catching his stack of papers before they scattered all over the floor.

“Did you scare him off?” Ori asked, setting his papers on a table. He walked to Thorin’s desk and grabbed his tablet, abandoned when Thorin had asked him to bring in his next appointment. Usually Thorin would scold him for his carelessness, but he seemed distracted, not even aware his assistant was in the room.

Ori snapped his fingers beside Thorin’s ear, amused by the way he jolted upright. “You’re distracted,” Ori commented with a grin. “Balin said you found yourself a pretty young thing.”

“Balin’s delusional,” Thorin grumbled, turning in his chair.

Ori nodded in disbelief. “He seemed pretty sane to me,” he said, grinning as Thorin’s frown deepened. “You’ve got a meeting in ten with Janson.”

Fantastic, Thorin thought. Just what he needed. This whole merger was going to be the death of him, if Frerin didn’t kill him first. He just had to keep his eyes on the prize, that was all. Simple. “Get me a reservation for tonight at that little French restaurant,” Thorin mumbled.

“Pardon?” Ori replied, eyes raised, nearly dropping his tablet onto the floor.

“You heard me,” Thorin said, voice hard. “That one that Frerin goes. A nice, private table for two - and two tickets to something. I don’t care what, just do it. For tonight.”

Ori smirked, making a note in his tablet. “Anything else, sir?” he asked. “Roses? Carriage ride? Should I go out and buy you condoms?”

“You’re fired,” Thorin shouted as Ori scurried out of the room, his laughter cut off by the quiet 'snick' of the door sliding closed.

* * *

Bilbo fidgeted as he entered the lift, stuttering out the floor number to the lift operator – an honest to god lift operator! He’d never been anywhere this fancy in his life! – praying that Thorin hadn’t forgotten that he was coming.

He felt slightly guilty, joining Thorin for dinner. Frerin was suffering alone, the poor dear, and Bilbo had no right to go traipsing around with his brother. It just wasn’t polite. He should just tell Thorin he wasn’t going to join him for dinner and march right back home.

Yes. Perfect.

But what if Thorin got upset with him? He had a reputation for having a short fuse, and Bilbo had never witnessed it himself, but it wouldn’t be a rumour if it wasn’t true, would it?

No. He would just have to stick to his principles. And really, Thorin probably didn’t want to spend time with him. He was just doing it to keep him away from Frerin. Out of sight, out of mind; there was no true offer of friendship in his niceties.

The lift doors opened and Bilbo stormed out, prepared to give Thorin a good telling off, only to stop short. He had half expected to be greeted by the man himself, or his secretary, but instead found himself in a dark office space with at least a dozen empty desks.

Was he in the right place? He turned around to ask the lift operator, only to find the doors closed and the operator long gone.

Right. Well, no matter. He was a Baggins, and he would not be easily deterred. He came here to speak his mind, and so help him, he was going to.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice small, much to his chagrin. _Get yourself together, Bilbo!_

“Oh, hello,” someone replied, making Bilbo jump.

A door slid closed just beyond the desks and there stood an older gentleman with a white beard and a jaunty smile. He had a kind air about him and Bilbo felt instantly comforted.

“Lost, are you?” the man asked, touching a panel on the wall and the lights slowly coming on.

“I – well – I’m here to see Thorin,” Bilbo stammered. “Mr. Durin, I mean.”

The man gave Bilbo a double take, clearly surprised. It was obvious that Thorin did not receive many personal visitors. Bilbo wondered if he was the first, but swept that thought away almost instantly. Thorin was so very handsome that he’d have to have had at least a handful of people in his office for non-business purposes.

Non-business purposes! Dear gods, that made him sound like an – an – an escort or something!

The door slid open once more and a young man with a horrible bowl cut shuffled out, his nose buried in his tablet, saying, “Balin, Mr. Durin says his date should be here any moment, to make sure he – Oh.”

He looked up to spot Bilbo loitering near the lifts and Balin staring at him as if he was the 8th wonder of the world.

“Hello,” Bilbo greeted with a forced smile. Date? This was not a date! He was going to march right into that office and give Thorin a piece of his mind. Did anyone else think this was a date? Did _Thorin_ think it was a date? Bilbo wasn’t dressed for a date. Not for a fancy date at least, he wasn't wearing a suit, but he looked nice. He liked to think he looked nice. He really needed to get himself together. “I take it this is Mr. Durin’s office, then.”

Balin nodded, as did the young assistant. They both looked at each other before springing into action, each one bracketing Bilbo and practically dragging him towards Thorin’s office.

“You must forgive me,” Balin smiled, sounding as if he were laughing, but at whom, Bilbo couldn’t tell. “I completely forgot about your arrival, Mr. Baggins.”

“Bilbo’s fine.”

“I’m Ori,” the young one chirped, pressing a different button on the wall, causing the office doors to slide open once more. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he continued in a whisper. “Mr. Durin deserves to let loose every now and then. He’s too uptight.”

Balin cleared his throat, signaling Ori to _shut up_. They both nudged Bilbo forward, and once he was in the office, the doors slid shut behind him and he was left alone in the lion’s den.

It was not so dark in here as it was in the other room, light poured in from the wall to wall windows, the sun casting deep shadows around the picture perfect office. A glance out the window revealed a spectacular view of the whole town and Bilbo was left near breathless at the sight. No wonder Thorin never left his office. With a view like this, who’d ever want to come back to Erebor?

“Ori, if that’s you, I told you, my tie is – ” Thorin turned his chair, only to stare at Bilbo. He stood, his chair rattling behind him. “Fine. Bilbo, good evening.”

He switched a knob on his desk and the lights came on. Thorin was fidgeting with his tie, fingers tapping against the fabric. “You’re early.”

“It’s almost five,” Bilbo replied.

Thorin checked his watch, eyebrows rising in surprise. “So it is. Are you ready to go?”

Right. There was a reason Bilbo came here, and it wasn’t to be wooed. “This isn’t a date,” Bilbo blurted, much to his own surprise. _Nice going, Baggins._

Thorin furrowed his brow, opened his mouth for a moment, closed it again. He looked down and let out a breathy laugh. “I never said it was,” Thorin said, looking at Bilbo from under his long lashes.

“Your assistant,” Bilbo tried. “He called me your date.”

“He’s been fired, if it’s any consolation.”

Bilbo blanched, completely taken aback. Fired! Was Thorin really that cruel? That utter brute! “How could you do that!” Bilbo shouted, all his blustering anger returning to him. “That – that – that poor young man!”

Thorin took a step back as Bilbo rushed towards his desk with a wagging finger. He tried to hold back his amusement but he failed, a small chuckle escaping him. Bilbo practically saw red, then. To think that Thorin would laugh at someone else’s misfortune. And Bilbo had almost started to like him just a little bit!

“You are a terrible human being,” Bilbo continued, grabbing a folder off of Thorin’s desk and began hitting him with it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin tried, blocking Bilbo’s attacks as best as he could. He didn’t expect him to take him seriously. “Bilbo, please.”

“I will not.”

Bilbo got him good upside the head, only for Thorin to grab his wrists. He tried to squirm free but Thorin was too strong. “Let me go this instant!”

“I was only joking,” Thorin exclaimed, letting Bilbo go, watching him stumble backwards in surprise, clutching the folder to his chest.

His face was red with rage and his curls had come undone from their proper combing, falling over his ears, and one errant curl just over his forehead. He’s beautiful, Thorin almost thought.

Almost.

“Joking?” Bilbo muttered, rubbing his arms.

“Yes,” Thorin grumbled, snatching the folder away from him. “It was a joke. Are we going now, or are you going to continue hitting me?”

“I’m not going,” Bilbo sniffed.

Not – “Not going?” Thorin repeated. He made a huge fuss about his assistant and him being a date and now he didn’t want to go? He had reservations! He had tickets to a show! Bilbo Baggins was going to be the death of him.

Bilbo nodded. “That’s right. I’m not going.” He took a hesitant step back. “I can’t help but feel that you’re trying to distract me from Frerin, and I’m not going to be distracted, Thorin. I – I may be young but I’m not so flighty as that. I know you’re up to something and I came here to tell you that I’m not going with you. Anywhere.”

“Fine,” Thorin said, loosening his tie and taking off his suit jacket. Bilbo could only watch in horror as he turned on his intercom and said, “Ori, I won’t be going out tonight. Cancel my reservation, and feel free to take Dori to the theatre. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“Of course, Mr. Durin!” Ori squeaked back.

He – he – He was just going to cancel all his plans like that? It had to be a trick. It – it had to be. Why? “Why?” Bilbo blurted. It just didn’t make sense.

Thorin didn’t make sense. Bilbo’s thoughts would flit here and there and he couldn’t even begin to understand what he was thinking half the time.

“I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want,” Thorin answered, gently leading Bilbo onto the sofa. “Take-out alright with you?”

* * *

Bilbo stared down at the paper plate on his lap, steaming meatballs making his mouth salivate and his stomach rumble. He was so hungry, and the spaghetti looked so appetizing, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat it.

Thorin had no such qualms.

It was such a strange sight, watching Thorin spoon every ravioli, meticulously bite off the flat pasta side, and then shove the rest of the ravioli in his mouth. Bits of pasta sauce was in his beard, and a few flecks on his crisp, blue shirt. Every so often he’d take a bite of a breadstick, suck some imaginary flavor from his thumb, take a sip of wine that he had found chilling in his office refrigerator.

Was this some sort of trick, Bilbo wondered. Surely this was some strange plan to ease him into a false sense of security. Maybe the food was drugged, and as soon as Bilbo passed out, Thorin would put him on a boat to – to – Greenland!

His stomach growled.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Thorin asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

“Is it poisoned?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin gaped at him. “What?”

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Bilbo started. “You should be wanting to get rid of me, and here you are trying to feed me!”

“I’m not a monster,” Thorin grumbled. “And I never said I wanted to get rid of you.”

Thorin broke a breadstick in half. Now was the time to woo him, he told himself. If only it was that easy. He’d never wooed anyone in his whole life. “Please eat,” he said. “I know you’re hungry.”

Bilbo obliged, if hesitantly.

* * *

“I’m not lying,” Ori hissed into the phone, looking over his shoulder for Balin. If he knew that he was gossiping when he was supposed to be working, the lecture would be hours long.

It was a Friday night – honestly, why were they still in the office anyway? – and Ori needed to tell someone before he exploded. Dwalin was the obvious choice. After all, he was Thorin’s best friend, and he deserved to know what was going on in Thorin’s life.

“An actual date?” Dwalin repeated, still not able to grasp the concept that yes, Thorin was on a very private date in his office with a very cute young man and they were practically making heart eyes at each other, or at least they had when Ori had peeked in Thorin’s office not ten minutes earlier.

In all the years that Ori had worked for Thorin, he had never – and this could not be stressed enough – _never_ _ever_ shown a single interest in anything other than his work. Arkenstone Inc. was his passion, his hobby, his mistress. To think that Thorin actually had a heart! It was considered preposterous not even a week ago, and there he was, wining and dining.

And to think even Dwalin was taken by surprise!

“An actual date,” Ori confirmed. “They’re practically in each other's laps.”

The lift doors pinged lightly and Ori cursed, quickly giving his goodbyes and hanging up the phone just as Balin stepped out of the lift.

The advisor looked at Ori from over thick glasses. “Who was that?”

“Oh, nobody,” Ori smiled as he turned off his computer. He put his tablet in his bag, taking out the theatre tickets Thorin had passed onto him and slid them over to Balin. “I already called Dori and told him you were taking him out. Good night, Balin!”

He rushed towards the stairs with a wave, knowing that Balin wouldn’t chase him. It was about time those two got their act together. To think that Thorin got himself a date before either Dori or Balin could get the nerve to ask each other.

Honestly, Ori thought, what would they do without him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ori is me?  
> i usually ship dori/gandalf but i wanted some of that dori/balin lovin'. all of the ships, i whisper to myself as i drink an entire gallon of milk.


	7. First Date - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date/not-date part II
> 
> ch warnings: suicide attempt mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEEEyyyy. long time no see maybe? 
> 
> first off, ch warnings: suicide attempt mention. he's lying about it, but still. 
> 
> i wrote the 1st half of this ch while in mx, and then got inspired because of some ART. (aka i won a raffle to get art and i chose this fic. b/c when no one makes it for you willingly you gotta do what you gotta do :p )
> 
> which you can find [here](http://yamcat.tumblr.com/post/163450776957/aahhh-so-the-dear-andquitefrankly-won-the-art)! it's gorgeous and am super happy. yamcat is a treasure who i forever will treasure

When Bilbo was young, just a small boy with unruly curls and an untamed sense of adventure, he used to run off into Erebor Woods, the forest just surrounding the manor. He’d traipse off with a canteen full of water and a bag full of snacks, binoculars around his neck and a compass in his pocket.

He’d always come home a right mess, twigs in his hair and mud on his clothes. His mother would laugh, loud and merry upon his every return, blowing raspberries onto his cheeks. Her little adventurer, she’d call him. Her own Jim Hawkins.

Bilbo felt as if he was that small boy once more, standing at the edge of the forest, only this time he was not prepared for the journey ahead; and there would be no mother to wrap him into a hug at its end.

He ate his pasta quietly, hoping to end this not-date as quickly as possible. It seemed Thorin had similar ideas as he set his plate aside and dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

They’d eat, and then Bilbo would be free to go try and sneak into the manor to see Frerin.

“Is it good?” Thorin asked, frightening Bilbo. He nearly choked on a piece of chicken, and god that would have been embarrassing. Death by Rotini Tuscany.

“Dammit, Thorin,” Bilbo grumbled throwing a crumbled-up napkin at him. There was something immensely satisfying in watching it bounce off his perfect forehead. “You nearly killed me.”

Thorin grinned, picking up the napkin and smoothing it out. He looked softer, his cold eyes filled with warmth, a teasing look on his face. Bilbo found his mouth suddenly dry – was it hot in here? Where was his drink?

“Sorry, sorry,” Thorin said, pouring wine into Bilbo’s empty glass, nudging it into his hands. Bilbo gratefully drank until a sudden thought popped into his head. What if Thorin was trying to get him drunk! This could be part of his evil plan. But what good would his intoxication bring?

Just the same: Thorin wanted _something_.

Bilbo set his glass down and pushed aside his pasta. “What am I doing here, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, shaking his head as Thorin tried to respond. He was in a playful mood, that much was obvious. He wouldn’t get a clear answer with a question like that. “What do you want from me?” he rephrased.

“Nothing,” was Thorin's quick reply. He wasn’t even trying to hide his lies. Bilbo stood, prepared to leave. He didn’t need this. Not now, not ever.

“When Frerin was 15,” Thorin started, an urgent tone betraying his casual demeanor. “He had the sudden urge to become a football star. He attended practice religiously, mother hired a personal trainer, his football knowledge was unparalleled. He was good. The best. I honestly thought he would be become a world-famous football player. And then. He gave it all up and claimed that his dream in life was to breed horses.”

Thorin sighed, sitting onto the couch. He was hunched over, stray hairs falling from their strict hold to frame his face just so. He looked like the perfect portrait of a weary man. Bilbo felt his anger subside just a tad. “Frerin doesn't care how his actions affect others,” Thorin finished.

“I'm not a child,” Bilbo retorted, for argument’s sake. “Nor a football.”

Of course he wasn’t. He was so much more. Couldn't he see that? And Frerin - didn't deserve him, couldn't begin to deserve the wonder that was Bilbo. All he saw was his beauty: the tender shape of his smile, the gentle curls in his hair, his fit backside in a pair of jeans. But what of his laugh, or his wit, or his talents? What of his hopes and dreams, the confidence that fell of him like waves, or that mouth – by god that mouth that loved to argue with him.

Frerin was in love with a picture, while Bilbo was a whole novel. And Thorin - was starting to get lost in the pages. He needed to pull himself together.

Thorin stood again to pace towards the balcony, when he was hit with a sudden idea. “I’m very much aware of that, Bilbo,” he said, watching Bilbo's reflection from the windows, though seeming to look beyond them. “I know. Give an old man that much credit.”

“You're not old,” Bilbo blurted, cheeks dusting red at the outburst.

Thorin laughed, a dry, self-deprecating sound. “Some of us are born old,” he said. “I know I'm not as fun, or charming, or as handsome as Frerin. I don't have anything to offer you at all but sad attempts at friendship.”

He half turned over his shoulder, keeping his head bowed in shadow. Bilbo stood with his lips pursed, his brow furrowed. How precious he looked there, wild befuddlement endearing him all the more to Thorin. He was genuinely concerned for him.

“Friendship?” Bilbo echoed.

Thorin nodded. “Yes. If you’d let me.”

He faced him then, swallowing down his fear. Bilbo approached him cautiously, as a deer would a predator, unsure whether he could trust him or not.

“Why me?” Bilbo asked.

That was _the_ question.

It had never been Bilbo for anyone before. It certainly had never been Bilbo for Frerin, and yet he had become infatuated with him. He, who had never cared for anyone or anything for longer than a minute, to love someone so – so perfectly good. It wouldn't last. Couldn't last.

Wasn’t this so much kinder?

“The last time I had a personal visitor was... ten years, or so,” Thorin said. “He was… it's not important who he was but - I was in love with him. I had lost my senses. I gave him everything he could want or need, I cherished him like I had no one else. And he had come into this office and told me that he wasn't dating me, he was dating a company. I – who had given him more of myself than I had anyone before, or since.”

Bilbo gave him such sad, sympathetic eyes; he felt almost guilty for lying. Almost.

“I had stood out on that balcony,” Thorin indicated just past the windows to the art deco railings, “long after he’d gone, wondering what would happen if I were to just – climb over the railing and let myself fall. And all I could think about was how far the stock would plummet. I proved him right.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, stepping closer, a hand placed carefully on his elbow. “Thorin, I'm so sorry.”

Thorin shook his head, flashing a sad smile at him. There were tears welling in Bilbo’s eyes, and Thorin mentally congratulated himself on a job well done, quickly followed by harrowing guilt. _Keep it together,_ Thorin scolded himself. This was for the greater good.

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” Thorin said. “If not you, then who?”

Bilbo nodded, hooking his arm around Thorin’s, saying, “Alright, let’s go.”

“Go where?” Thorin asked, letting himself be led out the door and into the lift, too stunned to react. They were supposed to get closer, take advantage of the intimate atmosphere – not march out into the night and ruin all his hard work.

He hadn't even locked the door; anyone could just walk into his office and… and… disorganize everything!

“Where are we going?” Thorin demanded, looking at Bilbo’s small, delicate hand on his arm. The lift operator couldn’t decide whether he was allowed to look at them or not, but there would definitely be gossip come morning.

Or worse, it’d be all over the company, and then someone would tell their sister, who’d tell their cousin, who will then tell their best friend, who happens to work for the papers, and he’d find his face plastered all over the front page news with the headline:

**_ARKENSTONE INC. CEO SEEN WITH HOT YOUNG THING: ESCORT OR LOVER?_ **

“Out,” Bilbo answered, shooting Thorin a sly grin. “I don't know if you've ever heard of the outside, but it exists just below the 55th floor.”

“You think you're so very clever,” Thorin grumbled. “I'll have you know I go outside every day.”

“The thirty seconds walking to and from your car doesn't count,” Bilbo quipped, nodding his head in thanks to the lift operator and pulling Thorin along with him.

Despite Thorin’s misgivings, he had to admit that this was nice. Bilbo was a warm presence by his side, arm now nestled against his own. He could imagine many an evening spent like this: silent, but comfortable. Bilbo would come fetch him out of his office, tease him about being a workaholic, but always reassuring him he still loved him just the same.

Thorin’s mind was a horrible traitor.

They walked through the park, stopping only when Bilbo finally let go of Thorin to admire the duck pond. His excitement only reminded Thorin how young Bilbo was. He was in his early twenties, more boy than man.

He had his whole life ahead of him, and he wanted to waste his youth on a fool like Frerin? He may love his brother, but Bilbo deserved someone better than him.

“I’m getting old,” Thorin muttered, rubbing his hands against his face. Old and sentimental.

“It must be hard for you,” Bilbo said, watching a duck swim by lazily. Thorin thought that he was making fun of him, but Bilbo looked too sad. He sat down at a bench and patted the empty spot beside him. “To sit in your office all day and… remember.”

Right. Yes. That. Thorin coughed, looking at his shoes and trying to look sad. He was suffering from heart break here. “You get used to it,” Thorin replied. “And I try not to think about it.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, much to Thorin’s surprise. “For trusting me with the man behind the desk.”

“Thank you for caring about him,” Thorin smiled.

* * *

“Tell me about Paris,” Thorin said as they drove back to Erebor Manor.

Bilbo leaned back in his seat, the warm summer air blowing gently through the open windows. _Comme d’habitude_ was playing softly on the radio while he hummed along. He hadn’t expected much from their… meeting, but he was so very wrong.

Thorin was a very sweet, if melancholy, man. How long had he been trapped behind Arkenstone’s name, trying to find a way out? It’s so much easier to love a business, knowing that it could never betray you. Oh, how Bilbo’s heart broke for him.

He had felt such utter despair that night he had tried to run away. Thorin had stopped him, helped him: without his interference, Bilbo would never had grown into the man he was today. He owed him so much, even if Thorin didn’t think so.

“What about Paris?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin shook his head, lowering the volume on the radio. “What do you love about it?”

Bilbo closed his eyes and inhaled. What wasn’t there to love? “The rain,” Bilbo said, opening an eye in time to catch Thorin make a face. He sat up then, leaning towards him. “When it rains, Paris smells so very sweet.”

“It’s the chestnut trees,” Thorin told him.

Bilbo knew that. Sophie had told him that much. But it didn’t change his mind on the matter. A Paris shower was romantic. It wrapped him up like a warm blanket, comfortable and soft.

“You asked me what my favorite – ”

“Yes, yes, sorry,” Thorin interrupted. “Proceed.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m taking a survey,” Thorin answered. “Things to do in Paris for first time visitors.”

Bilbo lit up, clapping his hands in delight. “Are you going to go? Are you really going to go to Paris?” Thorin nodded and Bilbo sighed. “You’re going to love it, Thorin. I know you will. And you have to stay with Sophie and Alain, I’m sure they’d be surprised to see how big you’ve gotten. They’ve got loads of baby pictures of all of you and – I’ll even let you ride my scooter!”

Thorin chuckled, placing a hand over Bilbo’s, much to his surprise. Bilbo looked at their hands, wondering if he should pull away. This was too much, surely. Friends didn’t act like this. But his touch filled him with a warm feeling, like rain covered Paris, and so he let it stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comme d'habitude by claude francois (foreshadowing???? maybe...???)
> 
> thorin is the worst? like on the one hand he's totally falling in love but also he's a jerk and i hate him but i love him  
> THE DRAMATIC IRONY IS KILLING ME PEOPLE
> 
> (ps i'm tired and will try and edit later womp womp)


End file.
